


Can I See Some ID?

by tablemanners



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Bad First Impressions, Comfort, First Meetings, Fluff, Italian, M/M, e owns a bar, robespierre is mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-04 05:18:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12763977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tablemanners/pseuds/tablemanners
Summary: Enjolras just happens to own a bar ("The Robespierre" wow what a dork) and the local drunkard might just happen to pass out in it one evening. Of course, Enjolras can't just leave that guy on the street! aka Enjolras takes care of Grantaire ft. Grantaire speaking Italian





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please prepare for clumsiness and quite a bit of blushing

“What?” Enjolras shouted into the phone, plugging his other ear as he tried to make out what Combeferre was saying. “Sorry, I can’t hear you, I’m covering Jehan’s shift. Can you just text me?” Impatient customers frowned at him, complaining loudly to their friends and making it even more difficult for Enjolras to hear his co-manager. When Enjolras had decided to open a bar several years back, he thought it would be a great idea. They could have poetry nights, have a welcoming place to assemble gatherings, and make a good profit while they were at it. Somewhere along the way his hopes were dashed and his bar became like every other bar in Detroit: sleazy. It wasn’t the sleaziest, that was for sure, but it in no way prompted social change and awareness in the community. He kept it going because it really did bring in a good profit, which helped him to pay off his student loans, and he had bonded with all of his employees. 

“Can you repeat that?” He shouted once more, face scrunched in concentration.

“Hey blondie!” A rather large tattooed man with a handlebar mustache grunted, looking pretty pissed. “You gonna get me my drink or am I gonna have to go next door?” Enjolras admonished himself for neglecting the customers and did his best to ignore the bitterness in the man’s voice.

“I’m sorry, what can I get you?” Enjolras shoved his phone in his back pocket, forgoing all attempts at communicating with Combeferre and promising to get back to him on his break. The man ordered quite a large amount of beer, and Enjolras didn’t even try to ID him. There was no way that man was younger than 40. Enjolras grabbed a pint and filled it to the brim, sliding it towards the man and scurrying down the bar to the next customers. “Can I see some ID?” He asked the giggling group of girls eyeing him up and down. They nodded frantically, reaching into their purses and shoving their licenses in his face. Thankfully they were all old enough (it was always a rough night when Bahorel had to escort underage patrons out of the bar) and they tipped him nicely. 

It was only a Wednesday, yet the bar was pretty crowded and the endless murmuring of voices gave him a headache. Enjolras meandered to the back at 10:00 for his fifteen minute break and checked his phone, wincing at all the missed calls from Combeferre. He dialed him up, leaning back against the lounge sofa and resting his feet on their makeshift “coffee table.” The phone had only rung once when Combeferre picked up on the other end, clearly concerned. 

“Enjolras, is everything okay? Do you need me to cover a shift? It sounded pretty crazy over there.” 

“No, it’s fine. Why’d you call? Do you need anything?” The hum of the bar was still pretty loud, but it was muffled in the backroom and Enjolras could actually hear Combeferre when he spoke. Hopefully he could resolve whatever the issue was before his break was over.

“Oh yeah, I was doing the finances for the bar and our tax returns don’t seem to add up. We can discuss it more in depth when you have some time, don’t worry about it. I’m on it.”

Enjolras groaned, distressed by the news. Owning a business was just as hard as they say, if not harder. There was so much legal crap involved, he was surprised he managed to open up The Robespierre. Getting the claims to call his establish “The Robespierre” was an absolute nightmare, but he had been determined. That fire was slowly dying out. “Thanks for letting me know,” He finally answered, noticeably tired.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to take a shift? You sound exhausted, you really need to get some more sleep. I can be over in half an hour--”

“Really, Combeferre, I’m fine. It’s only a Wednesday.”

“A busy Wednesday,” his friend pointed out. 

“I’ll live.” He thanked Combeferre and said his goodbyes, checking the clock before he stood up and stretched. It was time to head back out to the frontier. He turned his phone off and slid it back into his back pocket, fixed his hair and cracked a few knuckles before leaving his sanctuary. The smell of liquor and sweat smacked him in the face, along with the warmer temperature and the mind numbing noise flooding his senses. He made sure to turn on a few more fans before taking his spot behind the bar.

“Could I have two bottles of beer please?” A younger man asked, probably in his mid-20’s.

“Can I see some ID?” He asked back. His question was met with a drunken smile (clearly this man had already had quite a bit) and some useless fumbling. It took him far too long to pull out his ID, but he managed to do so and eagerly handed it to Enjolras. Enjolras smirked when he saw his guess was right, the man was 26. Ever since owning a bar, his ability to guess ages had improved immensely. “Thank you, er… Grantaire?” He read off the name, a bit surprised by how foreign it looked. Of course, he was one to talk. After growing up in France, he had grown accustomed to unique names. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.” 

The man nodded, slipping a bit then righting himself when he noticed Enjolras was looking. “Thanks In-Joll-Rass, he slurred, totally butchering his name.

“Actually, it’s Enjolras,” he corrected kindly, accepting the man’s tip.

“I’ll just call you Apollo,” he said with a shrug, taking a swig from his beer and gazing at Enjolras through heavy lidded eyes. 

“All right…?” Enjolras mumbled to himself, a bit confused. “Don’t drink too much buddy.” He moved on, serving more drinks and sending an over-eager 19 year old out with a pat on the back. By Midnight, the place had cleared out and Enjolras started to close up shop. He locked the doors first and made sure the “Closed” sign was large and obvious, not wanting any ‘incidents’ to occur. 

Enjolras scanned the bar, sighing. It was a mess. Napkins littered the floor, along with empty cans and one or two broken glasses. “How the hell…?” He mumbled, bringing his hand to his forehead in dismay. With a hearty sigh, Enjolras got out a broom and began to sweep. Once it no longer looked like a train had ravaged his bar, he was able to wipe off the tabletops and throw all the dishes in the dishwasher. Everything was stored where it belonged, the chairs were up on the tables and it even smelled better. Enjolras spared a glance at the clock, sighing when he noticed it read 1:15, and rushed to the backroom to grab his coat. 

He was doing one last sweep of the bathroom when he noticed a dark lock of curly hair peeking out from underneath a stall. He approached hesitantly, dread filling him when he registered that it was indeed a man. He was dead to the world, passed out with his face lying against the bathroom tiles. Enjolras suppressed a shudder as he nudged the man. He stunk of beer and urine, and Enjolras recalled serving the man earlier. “Grant? Gavin? Grady? What was your name?”

He looked him over, trying to push past the pity he felt for the man in order to come up with a logical solution. The man looked younger while sleeping, his face slack and soft. Dark stubble littered his chin and the man had quite the mop of hair on his head. Thick, dark, curly and impossibly tangled, it appeared to be almost matted where it was compressed against the floor. He seemed shorter than Enjolras, but not necessarily below average height. His jeans were ripped, which could have been a fashion statement, but Enjolras felt this was unlikely judging from the paint smears and small rips on the rest of his clothes. His coat was half on, half off, the man’s right arm free of it and dangling from the toilet. If Enjolras was to find anyone passed out in a bar after hours, it seemed pretty likely it would be this guy.

“Wake up!” Enjolras said sort of loudly, shaking the man and setting him upright. “Sir? You okay?”

The man’s eyes fluttered open, and Enjolras heard himself gasp. Okay, maybe he was a bit cheesy, but the man’s eyes surprised him. He hadn’t been able to see them well in the dim lighting of the bar, but now the vibrant green hues stood out. “Sir?”

The man raised his eyebrows, disoriented and dizzy. “Ow…” he mumbled, adjusting his stiff joints as he took in his surroundings. “What time is... oh!” A spark of recognition appeared to have consumed the man’s mind as his face slowly turned red. “Apollo?”

“Do you need me to call a cab?” He asked, trying to get the shorter man to stand. 

“Apollo!” The man repeated, a bit smugly this time. He was gazing dreamily at him, wonder and awe easy to read on his face. “Remember me? Grantaire!” 

Enjolras did remember him, but he kept this to himself. Right now his goal was to get this man somewhere safe for the night. “Come on,” he said, jostling him and escorting him out of the bathroom. They waited a good twenty minutes for a cab, and by the time they got in Grantaire seemed to be dozing off again. 

“Where to?” A burly woman with a thick accent asked, facing the two of them. “No puking in my cab,” she announced resolutely, glaring at Grantaire. 

“Um, could you head towards 42nd street?” 

The woman nodded and Enjolras realized just how screwed he was. He couldn’t leave Grantaire on the side of the road, but as of now it seemed that Grantaire was incapable of giving him a home address. “You awake Grantaire? Do you have a phone?”

“Penso che io sia innamorato,” Grantaire muttered, resting his head in the crook of Enjolras’s neck. “Sei così bello.” 

“What language is that? Italian?” Enjolras frowned, shaking Grantaire once more. “Please just wake up!” Enjolras thought of calling one of his friends, but it was nearly two in the morning and Enjolras liked to consider himself a good friend. “Do you have a phone anywhere?”

After some hesitation, Enjolras started to pat Grantaire down. He wasn’t trying to feel him up or anything, but he still felt guilty when he reached into Grantaire’s back pocket. “Fa il solletico,” Grantaire murmered, still in what Enjolras perceived to be Italian. 

At last he recovered a phone, complete with a cracked screen and a passcode. “Grantaire, please key in your passcode. Grantaire!” The man was useless.

“You getting out?” The taxi driver asked. Enjolras forked over some cash and dragged Grantaire out with him. The taxi driver gave him a suspicious look before driving off.

Enjolras shuddered. Did she think he was taking Grantaire against his will? Then a thought much more angering: if she had seen someone whom she suspected would rape an unconscious person, would she just drive off? Enjolras bristled with contempt for her before reality set it once more. His apartment was right around the block and he had an unconscious man in his arms. He couldn’t just leave him on the street. He feared that with a face as pretty as Grantaire’s—err, a face that wasn’t repulsive, he corrected-- people would try to take advantage of the drunken man. He couldn’t allow that. 

“Grantaire, I’m taking you back to my apartment, is that okay? You can sleep on my couch.” 

The man nodded, or at least he thought he did, and Enjolras settled on caring for Grantaire. After an exhausting walk back to his apartment (hindered by a man who couldn’t bother to walk,) Enjolras dumped Grantaire on the sofa and collapsed on a nearby chair. He hoped Grantaire wasn’t some insane murderer or something of that sort, but just to be safe he decided he’d lock his bedroom door once he had properly taken care of Grantaire. 

He fetched him a glass of water and a pot to vomit into in case he got sick in the middle of the night, and left a note alongside of it.

“Grantaire, you passed out in my bar last night and I couldn’t just leave you there. I am sorry for having to house you in my apartment, but you were incapable of telling me where you lived and I couldn’t access your phone. Please do not be alarmed, I don’t mean to harm you. Also, please don’t steal anything. –Enjolras”

He threw a blanket over Grantaire and pushed his hair out of his face, watching the man mumble a few things as he drifted off to sleep. He stood up to leave, but hesitated, looking at Grantaire. “I don’t think I should leave you to sleep alone. I don’t want you to choke on vomit,” He said, mostly speaking to himself because his audience was incapacitated. 

He grabbed the note and scrunched it up, tossing it in a trashcan and pacing the room. Sleep threatened to creep up on him, but he wasn’t about to leave this stranger alone to harm himself any more than he already had. He finally settled on turning on the TV, the volume low enough so it wouldn’t wake Grantaire as Food Network played reruns of Cutthroat Kitchen. It was a long night, forcing himself to stay up to make sure Grantaire didn’t do something stupid. He even looked up a wiki-how article on how to care for drunk people, and sure enough it advised him not to leave a drunk person sleeping alone. “That’s just dandy,” he heard himself grunt out, eyes trained on his clock. Perhaps he should make some coffee.

After several agonizing hours of watching the (rather attractive) man sleep, he finally began to wake up. “Bollocks,” the almost stranger Grantaire mumbled, rubbing his head and wincing. No surprise he’d have a killer hangover. “Where the hell am I?”

“Grantaire? You awake?” Enjolras asked, trying to hand him the glass of water. Grantaire recoiled, looking over Enjolras, them himself, then Enjolras once more. 

“What did I do?” He asked nervously, a red tinge apparent on his face. “We didn’t…” Grantaire was flustered, eyes wide as he gestured between himself and Enjolras, “did we?”

Enjolras gaped openly, shocked. “No!” He spat harshly, defending his morals. “I would never, not with a person who was incapable of consent. I mean, I wouldn’t, I didn’t!” Grantaire looked a bit relieved along with just a tad bit disappointed. 

“Oh, of course. So, what happened?” He leaned forward, balancing his head on his hand as he looked at Enjolras skeptically. “I mean, who are you? Should I be afraid?”

Enjolras huffed. “No, I—look. You were passed out at my bar, and I tried to get you home. I got you a cab and I wanted to make sure you’d get home safely, but you couldn’t tell me your address. And your phone was locked, and I was trying to figure out what to do with you but it was like one AM and I really wasn’t feeling it. Sorry for deciding without your say, but you were kinda passed out. You can leave if you’d like, or you could take a shower first and borrow some of my clothes. I think you may have pissed yourself.” 

Grantaire looked down frantically, groaning when he saw the stains on his clothes. Beer, urine, and probably some vomit stained his jeans and t-shirt. “Oh my gosh I am so sorry, is your couch—I’ll pay to get it cleaned I swear.” Grantaire paused once more, “Wait. Did you say… your bar? You own the… oh geez.”

“I take it you’d like a shower? I’ll go grab a towel for you.” He rustled through a closet, pulling out a clean white towel and handing it to Grantaire. “The shower’s in there, you can use it. Careful with the dial, the water gets hot really quick.”

Grantaire nodded, still shell-shocked as he meandered into the bathroom. “Thanks,” he managed, his voice hoarse. The bathroom door closed gently and he heard the rustling of a belt.

Enjolras quickly skipped backed to his room, wanting to give the man his privacy. Even if there did happen to be a now naked handsome guy in his house, he wasn’t going to spy on him or anything. That would be deplorable. So with as much decency as he could, he knocked on the bathroom door and told Grantaire he was leaving a change of clothes outside the bathroom door.

Back in the living room, he checked his phone. A few messages from Combeferre and one from Courfeyrack about Combeferre. He also had numerous snapchat notifications from Feuilly which he settled on disregarding. Enjolras deliberated telling one of his friends about Grantaire. Perhaps they could help. Strangely, the thought of any of his friends helping Grantaire made him a bit jealous, and while Enjolras scolded himself for his self-centered feelings, he couldn’t ignore the senseless bond he felt he shared with the stranger. 

Enjolras was drifting off when he heard the shower turn off. Enjolras tried not to think about the man mere yards away, instead focusing on the morning news. “Thanks,” A voice called out, making Enjolras jump. 

“No problem, do you need me to get you a taxi?” Enjolras asked him, trying not to stare. Grantaire’s hair was damp, dark coils dripping down his back as he adjusted the sleeves on his shirt. They were a bit too long on Grantaire, who seemed indignant that he could fix it with the right amount of adjustments. 

“What street are we on?” Grantaire asked instead. When Enjolras answered, Grantaire seemed pretty content with walking. “I’ll return your stuff, sorry about last night. Thank you so much, I, um, thanks.”

Enjolras smiled, waving him out. 

“Hey, um, how old are you?” Grantaire asked halfway through the doorway, looking back at Enjolras nervously. 

“Oh, I’m 27,” Enjolras answered, a bit puzzled.

“Neat, I’m 26.” Grantaire gave him a thumbs up before he rushed out the door, gone in a flash. 

Grantaire had never been so embarrassed. As far as first impressions go, he’s pretty sure it can’t get much worse than what he just did. A man who appeared to be the sun humbled himself enough to care for Grantaire’s drunk ass so he wouldn’t get murdered in an alleyway. And he was gorgeous. 

Gorgeous wasn’t enough of a word to describe him. Sure, Enjolras was hot, but that word was so shallow. Enjolras was pretty, because damn, Grantaire was sure he’d never seen eyes as blue as that man’s. He was beautiful, yes, he clearly had perfect proportions and would be so aesthetically pleasing to paint. Enjolras was everything. And everything was so out of reach. 

Grantaire had gone and made a mess of himself, dead drunk and babbling Italian in a sorry attempt to flirt that did not work. It seemed more like a cry for help. He was so drunk he couldn’t even remember half of his encounter with Enjolras. And he was glad he couldn’t. 

“Is Bossuet there?” Grantaire asked over the phone, anxiously tapping his fingers on his leg. The operator confirmed that Bossuet was indeed there and switched him over to his line right away. “Bossuet, is your bad luck contagious?” Grantaire asked, ready to go into full on mope-mode. 

The man laughed from the other end of the line and Grantaire could picture him shaking his bald head with a sigh. “What is it now, R?”

“I’ve made the worst first impression on the love of my life,” he answered matter-o-factly, getting an even greater laugh from Bossuet.

“I doubt that, I’m sure you were charming!” Bossuet finally said after having reconciled his composure. 

“I was dead drunk.”

“Ah, classic R! He couldn’t have been much different, you went to The Robespierre last night, right?”

“He owns The Robespierre.”

Bossuet choked. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was passed out after closing and he took me to his apartment so I wouldn’t get mugged or something. He’s a Good Samaritan and I’m some random guy with a drinking problem!” 

“Wow R, this is… new.” Bossuet managed to say, and Grantaire could hear his grimace.

“Thanks for the support, dude. I feel a lot better now.”

“Hey, lay off the sarcasm! You called me, I just have to… process this.” Bossuet hummed for a good minute before he spoke another word. “Okay, I’ve solved all of your problems, no need to thank me. You just need to sell yourself! Tell him you’re a critic, and his bar is the best you’ve been in! He’ll want to impress you then.”

“Bossuet, that is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. I’m hanging up.” Grantaire stopped the call as Bossuet protested, dropping the phone on his coffee table. “So much for help,” he groaned, looking down at himself. At Enjolras’s shirt. It even smelled like him, and Grantaire had to force himself not to inhale his scent because Grantaire was NOT a creep. 

Before anything, he had to return the clothes to Enjolras. Oh joy.

It was dusk, the sun was turning the clouds into lovely shades of pink and orange, and Grantaire was standing outside of Enjolras’s apartment like a loser. He clutched the bag close to him as he rang the doorbell, gulping as he felt his heart rate increase. He pondered leaving the bag and running, alas, Enjolras answered the door before he had the chance. “Grantaire!” He said pleasantly, not repulsed to see him. That was a start.

“Hey, I washed your clothes so I thought I’d go ahead and return them. To you. Your clothes, yeah, here they are,” Grantaire said, making absolutely no sense. He was an idiot.

“Thanks?” Enjolras replied, tentatively taking the bag from his grasp. “Do you want to come in or…?”

Grantaire felt his jaw hit the ground, not literally, of course, but he had a feeling he looked like even more of an idiot with his mouth hanging open like that. This was his chance, he had to take it. “Yeah, sure!” Grantaire finally said, feeling that it sounded a bit too eager. He winced at that, but gratefully followed Enjolras to the living room.

“Are you doing okay? You have a place to stay, right?” Enjolras asked as he handed Grantaire a glass of water. 

“Oh yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry about me.” Grantaire said vigorously, realizing Enjolras asked him in to make sure he wasn’t in any life-threatening conditions rather than to try and flirt. Darn.

“So, you’re an artist?” Enjolras asked him, nodding at his new ‘clean’ t-shirt still riddled with paint splats. 

Grantaire felt a bit embarrassed by his ensemble but nodded nonetheless. “Oh yeah, I was an art major but didn’t get too far. I just sell what I can.”

“And you speak Italian?”

“Sì,” Grantaire muttered sheepishly, smiling to himself. “Sorry about that, the other night. I don’t really know what I was thinking, I was trying to--” flirt, Grantaire thought, thankful he had cut himself off before he said something embarrassing. “So, what kind of name is… Enjolras?”

“You said it right! My name is French, and I grew up in Nantes.”

“Ooh, foreign,” Grantaire said, inwardly scolding himself at his ogling. “I mean, that’s pretty neat. America must have been quite the shock.”

“Not really,” Enjolras said with a shrug. “People are people no matter where you are.” 

“Hmm,” was all Grantaire’s genius mind could come up with.

“Forgive me if I’m prying, but are you gay? You jumped to the conclusion that we, you know, pretty quickly.”

Grantaire bristled, both surprised and embarrassed that Enjolras would bring that up. “Y-yeah, I am,” he let out nervously, watching Enjolras’s face for a reaction. He didn’t get one. Enjolras’s phone started blaring some orchestral tune and he perked up in surprise. 

“Oh, sorry Grantaire, I’ve got to go. It was nice getting to talk with you” Enjolras said, grabbing his coat. Grantaire followed him out the entryway, shivering from the brisk evening air. 

“Is there any way I can thank you? Buy you dinner or something?” Grantaire asked suddenly, not registering the words pouring out of his mouth.

“Did you just ask me out?” Enjolras asked, mouth pursing like he had tasted something sour, all the while holding back a grin. 

“I, no, I mean—sorry, that came out wrong,” Grantaire began to rant, words flying out of his mouth before he even realized what he was saying. 

“Oh?” Enjolras asked, an amused smirk on his face as he watched Grantaire struggle to communicate. 

“I just want to pay you back, you know, for helping me out,” he said, a fierce blush crawling up his neck. 

“Dinner sounds great,” Enjolras replied instantly, refusing to make eye contact with Grantaire as he smiled sweetly. 

“Did you just--?” Grantaire started, frantic, but Enjolras was looking back at his phone and heading off down the street. 

“Sorry, I really have to go! Bye Grantaire!”

So now Grantaire was back on the phone with Bossuet, thoroughly confused. “Does he like me or is he just polite? If a cute guy says yes to dinner, is it platonic? He knows I’m gay! What does anything mean??” He cried in one breath. Bossuet was in for a long night of lovesick bitching.


	2. The Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're pretty awkward oops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might redo this eventually or add a continuation, this whole chapter felt like it didn't really flow. Sorry about that, hope you enjoy anyway! I appreciate all feedback I receive!

There was a harsh, repetitive knocking disrupting his sleep, and Enjolras was not thrilled to be woken up on a Saturday. He rolled over, glancing at his clock. 11:00 am, that wasn’t so bad. Perhaps he should get up. With a grunt, Enjolras lifted himself out of bed and grabbed his slippers, sliding them on his feet quickly. The knocking had stopped by the time Enjolras had reached his front door. He creaked it open, not wanting to let any cold air in as he stood there in a t-shirt and his briefs. He immediately flushed when he realized who was on the other side of the door. “Grantaire!” He exclaimed, jumping out of the way and bidding him in. “Good morning, how are you?”

Grantaire’s face was beet red and Enjolras could see him straining to look away from Enjolras’s poorly clad figure. “Fine!” Grantaire answered quickly in a rather high pitch. Enjolras could tell how nervous he was. Any kind of cool and relaxed composition Grantaire was trying to express was not working. 

“I’ll go put some pants on,” Enjolras said, gaining a nod from Grantaire.

“Sounds reasonable.” 

Enjolras hustled back to his bedroom and grabbed a pair of sweatpants, throwing them on in record time and hustling back to Grantaire. “Sorry about that,” He said, scratching the back of his head.

“No problem!” Grantaire replied, fidgeting as he sat on the very couch he had been passed out on a few days earlier. “I just wanted to get back to you about dinner, if you still want to…?” Enjolras nodded, and Grantaire continued. “Sorry I had to come over, but I realized I don’t have your number and I figured we should, I don’t know, plan? Or something?” 

Enjolras nodded once more, reassuring the shorter man. He looked much better now that he wasn’t dead drunk. His hair, while still a bit messy, was glossy and coiled up in spontaneous curls rather than matted and tangled. He was cleanly shaven and wore casual clothes that didn’t have any paint on them, and when he smiled his eyes scrunched up and frankly it was adorable. “Well if it helps, I’m off this Monday and Tuesday.”

When Enjolras said this, Grantaire’s whole face lit up before he paused and frowned, his face scrunching up in distress. “Um, could I ask a question?” He spoke, his voice shaking while he bit his lip. He was clearly anxious about something.

“Sure?” Enjolras said, leaning forwards and exchanging a confused glance with Grantaire. 

“Alright, cool,” He let out a breath and looked up at Enjolras, making eye contact. “I just want to ask, and I’m sorry if I’m wrong, but, is this a date?” 

Enjolras perked at the question, immensely relieved that Grantaire didn’t have some nerve racking, Earth shattering confession to make. He even felt himself chuckling, which probably didn’t help Grantaire’s case. “I thought I made that pretty obvious,” Enjolras finally said, watching as the other man’s worried expression melted away. “Do you want me to put my number in your phone?” He asked, reaching his hand out expectantly. 

Grantaire nodded, incapable of forming words as he reached into his back pocket and procured his phone. He unlocked it and added a new contact, allowing Enjolras to type in his number. “You can text me so I’ll have your number.”

“Swell,” Grantaire said, accepting his phone back once Enjolras was done. “Thanks,” Grantaire said whilst trying to keep from blushing. Grantaire made up some half-assed excuse as to why he had to leave before he combusted.

Sometime later, Grantaire received an irritated voicemail from a call phone. He recognized Eponine’s voice immediately and shuddered as he listened to her bark into the phone. “You have a date? When were you going to tell me this? He’d better be a lot nicer than Montparnasse, that was a mistake. Call me back as soon as you get this, asshole. I’m staying at Feuilly’s. Kisses!” Grantaire had no doubt it was Bossuet that had told her. 

Eponine was fiery. That was the best word to describe her with. Ever since he’d known her, she’d been the one to know everyone’s affairs, the one to smash the patriarchy, and the one who invested herself in the romantic dealings of others because some pretty boy from the better side of town didn’t seem to fancy her. She got what she wanted, and she was outspoken. Very outspoken. 

Before he managed to call her back, there was a knocking on his door. “Grantaire, you in there?” A hoarse voice called, bitter and excited and terse. Eponine.

“Coming,” he admitted, dropping his phone on the sofa and allowing defeat. He let her in and prepared to divulge everything to her. Eponine was tall, towering above Grantaire at a few inches under six foot. Her hair was up in mismatched braids, scraggly and greasy, and her face was powdered in a fine layer of dirt. She hitched her pants up, fixing her shirt by tucking it into her pants and nodding to Grantaire. 

“So, what’s this I hear about a date?”

Eponine was positively gleeful the whole time Grantaire explained how they met. She cooed when Enjolras housed him and whistled when he offered Grantaire a shower. “So he’s hot?” She confirmed, her head resting in her arms dreamily. 

“Breathtaking.”

Eponine stood up suddenly, peering at Grantaire and mumbling to herself. “How long do we have?” She asked, eyeing his clothes and rustling his hair.

“What do you mean?” Grantaire swatted her hand away and crossed his arms defensively.

“When’s the date? How long do we have to fix you up?”

Grantaire scoffed. “Eponine, he’s seen me dead drunk, I don’t think we need to impress him. Plus, I don’t have any money! Neither do you! I’m just going to wear something without paint and try to brush my hair. We don’t need some life-altering make over.”

Eponine pouted, scolding his low standards. “You want him to fuck you, don’t you?” 

Grantaire felt his face heat up and his eyebrows arch as he tried to formulate as answer. “What? This is our first date, I don’t think he’s--”

“Answer the question Grantaire. Do you want him to fuck you?”

Grantaire hunched over, refusing to look at her. “I mean, yeah. Eventually.” 

Eponine nodded, affirming herself and boasting with pride. “That’s what I thought. He’s never going to fuck you if your first date is a disaster.”

“What do you mean? Our first meeting was a disaster! I pissed myself!”

Eponine guffawed, slapping her knee. “Ah yes, I know. That gave me quite a bit of enjoyment. But no, that’s irrelevant. The first meeting and the first date are two entirely different things. Trust me.” Grantaire gave her a doubtful glance, really not trusting her because honestly, what experience did Eponine have? But she was really all he had, and opposing her never ended well. 

“What do you want to do then?”

The main thing Grantaire noticed when Eponine began their “fixer-upper” journey were the face masks. There were a dozen different types, and Eponine was completely indifferent to what they did. She grabbed the cheapest and tossed it in their basket, beckoning Grantaire to follow her. Then came the conditioners, and Grantaire would admit he probably didn’t take care of his hair as much as he should, but the aisles of products for curls alone? It was overwhelming. “People use this?” Grantaire asked, examining some weird bottle of hair product that was hardly the size of his thumb. Eponine ignored him, focused on the task at hand as she tossed another bottle into the basket. “How much do we need?” He asked, trying to be helpful. 

Eponine turned on him, eyeing him up and down and still not answering his question as she snatched some hand lotion on sale. “What’s your preferred condom brand?” She finally asked, power walking through the aisles. 

“I don’t think I’ll need anything like that,” He held his hands up in defense as though preparing to surrender or run. “Really Eponine, we don’t need too much. Let’s go.”  
Eponine scowled, placing her hands on her hips and quirking an eyebrow. “You already have condoms, don’t you?”

“Irrelevant,” Grantaire shot back, snatching the basket from her hands and changing their course to the checkout. “Let’s go now.”

Eponine made him promise to use the conditioner every day and instructed him with how to use the face mask, advising him to use it Sunday evening or Monday morning. She also hand selected an outfit, just in case she didn’t get back to him before the date, which was very unlikely. “Go reel ‘em in cowboy,” She called as she bid Grantaire goodbye and tossed him a wink over her shoulder. Grantaire felt his face heat up in an angry, embarrassed blush. 

Sunday came and went, and soon Monday dawned. Grantaire hadn’t gotten much sleep, and there were still several hours until dinner that evening. Eponine had checked by Sunday night and Grantaire had made her promise not to disturb him Monday. He didn’t need any more stress than he already had. Grantaire went to shower, thoroughly washing his hair and dragging a comb through it once he got out. Then he put some oil Eponine had brought to him last night in it, wrapped it in a towel and flopped on the couch, forcing himself to relax. “Stress will make you ugly,” Eponine had advised, wagging a finger at him. 

His phone lit up, alerting him that someone had texted him. That Enjolras had texted him. Grantaire lunged for his phone even though he was alone, reading the text multiple times and trying to calm his heart beat. “You’ll be at my place at six, right?” It read, and it sent a thrill through Grantaire. This was really happening. He was actually going to have dinner with Apollo himself. He shot back a confirmation text immediately even though Eponine had scolded him the last time he did that with a romantic interest.

Enjolras didn’t know how to prepare for a first date. Much to his friends’ amusement, he had never actually been on a date. Most of his life he was too busy leading protests or meeting or running the bar. Now that he actually had to go on a date, he wasn’t sure he was ready. He had chosen an outfit easily, going with a plain t-shirt, some jeans and his favorite red jacket. It was casual and suited him well, which is what he assumed you were supposed to go for on a first date. He hoped. 

He was ready by three and spent another three hours pacing the room anxiously and second-guessing himself each time he saw his reflection. He pondered going to change for the billionth time when he heard a familiar knocking on his door, causing his heart to race. 

He opened the door, completely prepared to leave. He had checked over his person at least fifteen times. Grantaire smiled when he saw him, his hands shoved in the pockets of his grey jacket and his hair hidden by a green cap. “Hi,” Grantaire huffed out, his breath visible in the frigid temperature. 

“Hi,” Enjolras answered dumbly, staring at the other man. The two stood there, in the cold, both too awkward to initiate anything. Finally, Grantaire offered Enjolras his gloves, which Enjolras declined, and they were able to fall into a delicate conversation as they began their walk down the street. Enjolras caught himself staring at Grantaire more than he would have liked, and was thankful for the frosty air already making his face red. He could tell that without the wind-chill, his face would be just as red. 

Grantaire finally stopped outside of a small, locally owned restaurant and held the door for Enjolras. They were seated immediately and started to warm up thanks to the fire place on the other side of the room. “It sure is cold out there,” Grantaire said with a nod, fingering off his gloves and stuffing them in his jacket pocket. “Sorry for making you walk.”

Enjolras shook his head, “Don’t be sorry. Walking is better for the environment than driving, and it’s nice to get out.” Enjolras shouldered off his jacket and placed it on the chair frame. He gazed around, taking in the surroundings. It was a bit surreal, sitting in a restaurant with a cute boy sitting across from him blushing and smiling. A twinge of guilt sparked in him for being so self-indulgent, but then Grantaire was saying something to him and Enjolras was staring back at him like a total idiot. “Sorry, what?”

“Why did you decide to open a bar in Detroit?” Grantaire repeated with eyebrows raised. He hoped he wasn’t boring Enjolras.

Enjolras fixed his posture and cleared his throat nervously before talking. “I wanted a gathering spot for people to come together and discuss society and politics and reform, and I needed a steady source of income. I had this plan for poetry nights and club meetings for marches and protests, but that never really worked out.” 

“So you’re one of those people,” Grantaire clarified, waving a hand in Enjolras’ direction. “You think you can change the world?” 

Enjolras was a bit astounded, not really expecting that reaction from Grantaire. “Of course we can, we just need to let our voices be heard. You’ve got to believe in change!” The disbelief in Enjolras’ voice had Grantaire reeling, realizing what a bad move he had made. Of all the things to do on a first date, why question the other’s morals and political standing?

“I’m a bit of a cynic,” Grantaire admitted, shrugging. “I’ve seen a lot of bad things happen to a lot of good people, I’m not quick to hope.”

Enjolras looked sad, pity stretched across his face. “I’m sure there’s something you believe in. We can change this, all of this, if we work hard enough. Acceptance, equality, a better world, it’s all within our grasps.”

“I don’t know if the world is ready to change yet,” Grantaire said as he stared into Enjolras’ eyes, “But I think I believe in something, even if I doubt the effectiveness of all those prospects.” Enjolras waited expectantly, leaning close to Grantaire so he didn’t miss a word.

“Yes?” He asked, prodding Grantaire to give him an answer, “You believe in?” 

Grantaire shrugged, laughing it off lightly. “I’ll tell you some other time. Let’s change the topic.” Grantaire steered clear of politics for the rest of the meal, which was difficult because that was what Enjolras seemed to gravitate towards. The check came, and Grantaire paid it, and it was nearly over. All the days he had spent nauseous at the prospect of this dinner out with Enjolras were obsolete after what felt like no time at all. The date was ending.

“Thanks for dinner, Grantaire,” Enjolras shuffled through the light fall of snow littering the ground, smiling anxiously at the shorter man. 

“It’s nothing, really, thanks so much for Wednesday.” Grantaire felt a nudge and looked down, noticing Enjolras’ extended hand. Slowly, tenderly, Grantaire slipped his hand into Enjolras’, intertwining their fingers and looking straight ahead. He felt his heart leap in his chest as his mind tried to tell himself that holding hands wasn’t that big of a deal. Only he knew that was a lie.

It was a short walk back, and soon he found himself standing outside of Enjolras’ apartment, having to let go of his hand and say his farewells. “I’ll see you around, it was nice going out with you,” Enjolras murmured, reluctantly opening his door and leaning closer to Grantaire. Grantaire hummed in response, nodding in agreement.

“You know how I told you I believed in one thing?” Grantaire asked in a quivering tone, clearly second guessing himself. Enjolras nodded, eager to listen. “It’s you. I believe in you.”

Grantaire looked away, feeling a blush creep across his face and scolding himself for saying something so dumb and awkward on their first date. Grantaire hardly knew the guy, and he was practically confessing his undying love for him and—oh. Enjolras was kissing him, and it was warm and Grantaire realized he was leaning in and kissing him back. He scrunched his eyes closed and wrapped his arms around Enjolras’ bulky coat. His brain soon put two and two together and he realized he needed air, and apparently so did Enjolras because they were pulling apart with their foreheads resting on each other and panting lightly. “Sorry about that,” Enjolras said in a hushed whisper.

“Don’t be.”

“Let’s do this again sometime,” Enjolras said in response, breaking the silence and bringing them both back to reality.

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I haven't decided if this will be a series or if I'll just leave it at that. I'd love to hear your feedback! I love writing these two. What should I do next?  
> Thanks to @penrenutet for helping me out with the Italian!  
> “Penso che io sia innamorato”- I think I'm in love  
> “Sei così bello”- You are so beautiful  
> “Fa il solletico”- That tickles


End file.
